


Chosen

by bonebo



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: mentions of Overlord, mentions of Sixshot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:20:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4616373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Define: Regret (re·gret) /rəˈɡret/<br/><i> noun </i><br/>1. a feeling of sadness, repentance, or disappointment over something that has happened or been done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chosen

He had been chosen.

A simple laborer from Axiom Nexus, a nobody until he had a gun in his servo and a hatred in his spark; he'd been selected by Megatron himself for this process, this opportunity, this _honor_.

Chosen.

The euphoria stayed with him when he entered the re-purposed factory in Kaon, lingered in the trembling of his wings as he looked around. The room was huge and for good reason, what with the different chambers and tables set up along its walls; a few of the tanks were filled or half-filled with liquids that glowed different shades of purple, blue, and green, and the instruments and tools set up beside the raised slabs looked like they would be better suited to tearing a mech apart than building him into something new. He quickly noticed the lack of any other Warrior Elite, and looked to Megatron, wondering if Sixshot, too, had lost his nerve. Was he the only chosen one left...?

"This is an intensive procedure, Black Shadow," Megatron murmured, as if sensing his uncertainty; he took a few paces away, gesturing toward the equipment again, the glowing light from the tanks throwing heavy shadows on his armor and making him seem like part of the darkness. "Only one mech at a time."

Black Shadow followed the gesture and saw the faceless medbots stationed at every piece of equipment, dozens of beings only there to make sure he survived.

Intensive, indeed.

__

The slab was cold on his freshly-sanitized backplates, almost painfully so to his wings; he worked to regulate his ventilations as the medbots bustled around him, efficiently tying his limbs down to the table, thick metal bands securing around his every joint. He idly wondered if they were afraid he would resist, and the thought struck him as offending and ludicrous--why would he fight this? What could he gain?

He had been _chosen_ for this honor, why would he ever reject it?

But he made no objection as the little droids finished their binds, knowing it would serve no purpose; the medbots had no mind of their own, and were simply following orders, as they were obligated to do. They were not gifted with choice.

In some very small way, he pitied them for their ignorance.

__

"Phase one, begin," the intercom said, and he had but a moment to realize the voice was not Megatron's before his sensornet lit up in pain. He glanced down at himself to see the team of medbots removing the armor plating from his frame, starting down at his pedes and working up, prying each sleek panel loose before tearing it free. His vents hissed at the sharp pain of the slow, meticulous work, watching his protoform be revealed bit by bit--he watched the tiny gears in his ankles wildly spin, the delicate pistons of his knees fire erratically, and when they tore the plating off his flank his backstruts tried to force him off the table and he realized what the bondage was actually for.

It felt like the process took hours, and maybe it did. All he knew was that when the worst of the pain stopped, he was staring down at the body he'd never seen, vents stuttering; his every nerve felt like it was being burned, like just the pressure of the air around him was enough to light him up with an overcharged agony. He trembled and twitched on the table, staring in distant horror at the wiry skeletons of his precious wings, gasping and straining and feeling so terribly, terribly exposed.

But he had to be strong. He had been chosen.

He had been chosen, _he had been chosen_ \--he played the mantra in his mind as the voice overhead boomed out the start of phase two, as the medbots returned and he was lifted by some unseen force. As he was moved, the table slowly turned horizontal, his weight shifted and pressed against the bonds in new and agonizing ways; he panted through clenched dentae and clenched his servos into fists.

The tank nearest him was opened--it contained only dregs of a shimmery looking green liquid that emitted a soft, coaxing glow, and it belched fumes as the lid was rotated aside. He held his breath as he was slowly lowered inside, the table he was restrained against slotting neatly in the upright canister, and with a quiet click it slid into place. The winch holding him retreated and the lid over his head closed again, and he found himself staring at his reflection in the glass, at wide optics and a bare silver face. If he tried to look past his reflection, all he could see was darkness, lit occasionally by the red-visored glow of the nameless medbots.

He heard more than felt the liquid start to enter his tank; it made a soft whooshing sound as it spilled in from spouts along the sides of the tank, quickly filling the chamber with more smoky fumes. He felt his ventilations pick up as the liquid started to pool around his bare pedes, and for a moment he was surprised at it--it felt thick, like sweet condensed energon, and it was slightly warm on the rarely-exposed metal. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and rested his helm back, optics offlining as he prepared for the soak.

But it didn't stop.

The liquid climbed higher and higher, from knees to hips and beyond, and what had felt like pleasant warmth was quickly changing to uncomfortable heat. He wriggled uselessly in his bondage as the concoction continued to rise, feeling the substance wrap liquid heat around his very bones, scorching his core--it reached his neck and he started to thrash, but to no avail.

The liquid swamped over his helm, drowning him in fire.

__

"Phase three, start," was what dragged him back to consciousness, optics sluggishly onlining; as soon as he came back to himself he moaned in pain, his entire body feeling heavy and hot, his neural net alight with burning-bright sensation. The snap of a lid over his helm and a glance around told him he was in another, smaller tank, still upright. 

He tried to look out the glass, and found it covered in condensation from his own body heat. 

The _whoosh_ told him that liquid was entering the chamber, and he offlined his optics, crying out as the first touch of liquid licked his pedes--it felt ice-cold and stung his raw nerves just as badly as the previous one had, lighting him up in a new and awful way.

The liquid was thinner this time, filling up the tank quickly; one second he was panting his way through the misery, and the next his vents had sealed themselves off from the mix, protecting his internals from the freezing chill. He found himself shaking as he was submerged, his cries of pain lost to the pale yellow liquid he was encased in; but then he felt the liquid retreating.

Surprised by the sudden change, he didn't have a thought for anything other than relief as the concoction drained away; but then the air hit his exposed protoform again and this time he did scream, because everything felt so new and vulnerable and _raw_. By the time the tank was empty his vents were stuttering with the air that was torturing him, and when he saw the liquid starting to pool again he welcomed it, welcomed the all-encompassing relief it would bring to his abused nerve endings. 

But whatever shield it may have offered the first time, the concoction had forgotten; it lay thick and heavy on his bones, coating him in a burning chill, and the most he could do was retreat inside his mind and tell himself that _he had been chosen, it was an honor, he wanted this_.

By the third time the tank had emptied and refilled, even the mantra was not enough to keep him from screaming.


End file.
